


Reach Out (We'll Be There)

by sunspot (unavoidedcrisis)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Cooking, Multi, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Safehouses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 01:04:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17457662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unavoidedcrisis/pseuds/sunspot
Summary: Steve, Sam, and Natasha flee D.C. and head south until they can get some distance and some perspective. There's a safehouse and a chance for a moment of respite.





	Reach Out (We'll Be There)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SinginInTheRaine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinginInTheRaine/gifts).



"Clear. For now," Nat says, dropping into the chair. A plume of dust rises into the air when she does. She smirks when Sam's nose wrinkles. "Yeah, so, I'm not a great housekeeper. I haven't been down here in probably a year."

"Is it even a great safehouse then? If you haven't been here in a year but suddenly the neighbours see people…"

"People come by. Just not the kind of people who also clean up for me."

Steve's been listening, head in his hands, but not interrupting. Their chatter washes over him while he waits for… something. He was hoping getting here and being able to lock a door behind them and just relax for a second or two would do something for him. A bolt of inspiration, an idea of where to start, maybe a sense that it was going to be okay in the end. But the tension isn't easing, his mind isn't clearing, he still feels wrung out and lost.

"Hey there," Sam says, because while Steve knows they can both read him like a book, Natasha not going to call him on it at a time like this. Sam touches his hand, a little brush of fingers, and when Steve doesn't pull away, he gives a squeeze. "Steve. We're going to find him. One step at a time, right?"

Steve lets out a breath he's been holding too long. "Yeah, you're right.

"Of course I am," Sam says, relaxing back into his dusty chair.

"First order of business," Nat says, scooching up to the table. "I think I'm set, but we'll need IDs for both of you. I know a couple people who can help, but it'll take a few days to get the details to them."

"Yeah, do it." Steve glances at Sam, but they're thinking the same thing. This is Nat's wheelhouse; they'll follow her lead.

"My first order of business is food," Sam frowns. "Real food, not gas station hot dogs," he adds before someone reminds him that technically, they ate a few hours ago. He made it clear that he never needs to be reminded of that.

"I think there's a pizza place near here that's okay."

" _Real_ food, Nat. Is there a grocery store near here?" Sam settles all the immediate arguments about safety by proclaiming he wasn't important or recognizable enough to draw attention. He leaves with a smile and a soft reassurance that he'll be right back, and then they can actually enjoy a meal for once this week.

Steve pushes away the creeping anxiety that he's not going to enjoy anything for a long time and helps Natasha air out the safehouse and wipe down the counters in the kitchen.

"You've got your own safehouse in every state?" Steve asks. Nat shrugs.

"Just a couple, spread out. Shitty motels that give discounts for cash payments are more my style."

"Really?"

Her impassivity turns to a grin. "Or penthouse suites, private yachts… I'm adaptable."

The understatement of the century, but Steve won't say it.

"There's a smile," Nat says, touching his arm. Her echoing smile is small and genuine.

Steve tries to hold onto it. In all the pandemonium and chaos of the last week, Nat's hand on his shoulder has grounded him and reassured him that as messed up as it is right now, he's got people in his corner.

"Thanks," he says. Her soft smile fades and she gives him a wicked smirk instead.

"Yeah, yeah," she says, and they're saved from any more discussions of gratitude and undying loyalty by Sam coming back through the door with two bags stuffed with groceries.

Nat finds a battered radio and Sam directs traffic in the kitchen with the culinary confidence of someone who knows exactly what he's doing, or has never even made toast before. Time will swiftly tell.

Sam mixes sauces and sets them to the vegetables. Steve washes and Nat chops. Jokes flow easily, about how easily Nat handles the knife, about Steve's practiced fingers dialing into a radio station. They listen to all the Motown classics while the vegetables cook. Steve is responsible for mixing while Sam and Nat sing and bop along and generally act as cheerful distractions.

The smile creeps up and before he knows it, he's grinning down at the pan full of peppers, zucchini, and broccoli. Sam tries to tug the wooden spoon from Steve's hand when the Supremes come on, but dinner needs attention.

_"You got to trust, give it time, no matter how long it takes!"_ Sam twirls Natasha under the lazy spin of the ceiling fan and she laughs and twirls him right back. Steve watches, the smile still on his mouth, and he finally feels the release of the tension in his shoulders and jaw that he's been holding onto since they fled D.C.

And all it took was a dusty safehouse, a radio, and a stir fry.

Well. It probably wasn't the stir fry.

Steve sets the spoon down with an air of totality and crowds his dancing partners into the poorly aged formica counter. Sam loops his arms around Nat's waist before she can dart away and gain the upper hand, like she usually does. Steve leans in and kisses her, reaching around her shoulders to touch Sam's chest. Their lips meet over Natasha's shoulder and she makes a contented noise.

The radio flips to the next song and the next while they stand in a tangle of arms and little darting kisses. Eventually, someone remembers that there's food on the stove and they have to break apart. When trying to lie low, there's nothing as suspicious as lighting an entire apartment complex on fire.

"How dusty's the couch, do you think?" Sam asks, loading his arms with three bowls and a big bottle of some off-brand soda. 

"It's fine, I'm sure," Natasha says, offering her hands to take something from her. "Or the table?"

"Nah, it'll be fine." Sam carries everything to the couch and only distributes dinner when he's satisfied. They sit way too close together, but it's more comforting than it is awkward, so no one moves.

The vegetables are overcooked, the chicken is dry, and the soda is warm. It's still the most enjoyable meal in recent memory. Nat moves sideways and lies her legs across them when the bowls are empty. Sam puts his arm across Steve's shoulders and lets his head rest on the back of the couch. Far, far too much in each other's space. Steve senses there will be a lot of that in their future. He doesn't mind. He spent a long, long time not having anyone in his space, and sometimes he still thinks he can feel the chill of it. It's nice to not be alone.

Through the slats of the blinds, the sky's gone indigo. The radio's still crackling on in the kitchen. Everything still smells a little like dust.

"Anyone else utterly exhausted?" Natasha asks. When she shifts again to get comfortable, she reaches for Steve's hand.

Sam lets out a sigh and a dry chuckle. "It's been a week."

"There's only a double bed in there. It's going to be tight."

"We'll survive," Steve says, his first words since he was at the sink washing up for dinner. It's going to be a long, ugly struggle in the coming weeks, probably, judging on how these kinds of things have gone for him in the past, but they'll survive that too.

Steve lifts Nat off of him and doesn't set her down as he stands up. He offers his free hand to Sam to pull him to his feet. "C'mon," he says. "Let's go figure it out."


End file.
